Retrograde
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: It helps to have a list when you forget things.


Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, no profit is being made.

Rated: PG-13, for language and allusions to pizza

Author's note: Many thanks to Cheri, the world's fastest beta (who also knows where the ending is _supposed _to be).

And, oh, yeah, it's an amnesia story.

Retrograde

By L. M. Lewis

The two men were standing near the edge of the estate, in the gathering gloom of a winter evening. The older one talking, trying to get through to the kid, "The important thing to remember is anything worth doing is worth doing right."

"Yeah, yeah," The kid was nervous, twitchy. They were in sight of the rear window, looking onto a well-lit kitchen. "I just wanna know why you don't take 'em out right now, 'pop', 'pop'." He made a nonchalant gesture of shooting in the direction of the two figures, now clearly visible through the window.

Manny shook his head. "Because maybe you'd get one of them, and then the other one would be down behind the counter as soon as he heard the shot. You know who that is in there, don't you, kid? That's the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle. He's got himself a small arsenal in that house. Dunno how he gets away with it. If _I_ tried to get my hands on a sawed-off shotgun, the State of California would be all over me like flies on--"

"Yeah, yeah," Rico muttered; the twitchiness had given way to boredom.

"So we stick with the plan. They get the call at eight sharp. Tony's gonna tell 'em he's got some information about this guy, who this judge's been out to nail for a long time, that he wants to meet them at this bar that's north of here a couple miles. They go out, get in the truck--"

"What makes you sure they'll take the truck?"

"Because, when you followed him this afternoon, and put the fix on the truck while the kid was out gofering, I came over here and did a number on that street rod." The older man smiled. "See, that's planning."

"Yeah, yeah." The younger man was frowning. "But it sounds kinda complicated." He was following the older man around the tree-lined edge of the property towards the front of the house.

"Easy, it'll be easy. Tony makes the call. They come charging out."

"What if they call the cops?"

"This guy, Hardcase, he's like a dog on a bone. You can set a watch by him, totally reliable. They'll come out. They'll go barreling out of here in that truck, Tony's gonna make it sound like he's scared. We follow, first good downhill--" He held up the small radio device. "Bang, no steering, no brakes."

ooooo

"I'm telling ya, when you go shopping, you make a list." The older man was leaning on the counter. "That way you don't forget the popcorn."

"Yeah, yeah." McCormick said, exasperated, "_nobody_ runs out of popcorn. They sell the stuff by the pound. That's enough for a two-week John Wayne marathon." He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil and slapped them down on the counter in front of the judge. "There, list."

The judge looked down at the counter, and then up at the younger man again. "But the movie starts in ten minutes. Anyway, it's just popcorn."

"It is _never_ just popcorn. And anyway, it's _The Searchers;_ it's two hours long without commercials. I'll be back before the massacre. Put down pistachios."

The judge was writing. McCormick grabbed his coat and stood impatiently. "Let's see . . . man, I thought only doctors had handwriting this bad. Chocolate chip cookies. Which kind? You gotta be specific here, Judge. Chewy or crunchy?"

"Crunchy."

"Salami. Swiss. Rye."

"That's the seedless kind. No seeds."

"Right," McCormick grinned, "those seeds are hell on the dentures."

Hardcastle barred his teeth and pointed at the door. "Go. Now."

ooooo

"Hey, Manny, something's wrong," the kid dropped back into the shadow of the bushes. "It ain't eight yet, and it's just the one guy."

"Damn." The older man checked his watch, thinking fast. "Okay. I'll take him. You stay here. The phone'll ring. The old guy's gonna come out. It'll just be him, easy enough. When you're done you go down to the beach, you walk north. You go maybe a mile. You ditch the gun. You hear that? Ditch the gun; you're getting paid $25,000, you can get another one."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Then you get back up to the road. When I'm done, I'll drive back and pick you up."

They heard the street rod grind reluctantly and then die. The man had climbed out and was looking down at it. For a moment it seemed like he was going to pop the hood, then he glanced back over his shoulder towards the house, and ambled over to the truck.

Manny had already cut back around the edge of the estate and was climbing into the rental van that he'd left out front on the road. When the truck turned onto the highway, he followed at a cautious distance, then closed the gap, waiting patiently for the downhill curve that he'd scouted out that afternoon.

ooooo

The phone rang just as the opening credits began to roll. Hardcastle grumbled as he went to the phone. "Never fails, every time. Better be important." He picked it up and barked a greeting.

ooooo

Minutes passed, Rico checked his gun and moved up closer through the shadows to find the best angle for his shot. He'd heard the phone ring faintly from inside the house. More minutes. No geezer. He was staring so intently at the front porch that he did not hear the sounds of someone approaching from the other direction.

"Hold it right there," the judge ordered.

Rico turned toward the voice, raising his nine millimeter and squeezing the trigger almost reflexively.

And his last thought was, _oh, shit, he really does have a shotgun_.

ooooo

"Popcorn," McCormick muttered. And now he had the Coyote to worry about, too. Maybe it was the starter. The way he'd abused that car, in the four months since Flip's daughter had given it to him, he wasn't surprised it was getting touchy.

He'd tried to explain to Hardcase that it was a finely-turned racing machine, not the Batmobile, but the old donkey just didn't seem to get it. Anyway, taking the corners on two wheels just might be as close as he was ever going to get to racing again, he contemplated gloomily.

He coaxed the truck through the curves of the road at just under the limit. Someone's headlights had crept up behind him. _Sorry buddy, no moving violations for me today. I'm on a mission to get popcorn and seedless rye; you'll just have to wait for a straight-away._ He slowed as soon as he approached the passing area, but the lights were still right behind him.

McCormick squinted into his rearview mirror and sped up a little. It was a van, he decided, a van driven by a jerk. It stayed on his tail as he accelerated on the downhill slope. There was a bang and a shudder that rocked the truck and, for a split-second, he thought the van had collided with him. No, it had dropped back, the headlights still glaring. He tapped the brake, then stepped on it hard. Annoyance shifted to fear as he felt no response there, and none in the wheel he gripped tightly. He felt the truck sliding to the outward edge of the road and knew he was going too fast for the low, curved railing at the bottom of the hill.

ooooo

"You okay?" Lt. Giles was standing next to Hardcastle, looking down at the body on the Judge's front lawn.

"Yeah, just a scratch." The judge absent-mindedly fingered the bloodstained tear in his left upper sleeve. "I didn't give him enough time to aim. Do you recognize him?"

"Not off-hand."

"Well, I already checked, no ID. Looks young, might be a new guy." Hardcastle was looking out, past the flashing lights of the police cars pulling into the drive. "I'm just wondering if he was working alone. McCormick left maybe ten minutes before all this."

The Lieutenant lifted an eyebrow. "You think McCormick--?"

"No, not that." Hardcastle looked back at the Lieutenant and shook his head impatiently. "I mean this guy had help, the phone call was to lure us out, both of us . . . and why the hell did McCormick take the truck, anyway?" He was walking toward the garage, fishing in his pocket for the spare key.

Silence met his attempt to start the car.

"Damn, Bill. This guy was just a back-up. It's the truck."

ooooo

McCormick wished the guy with the flashlight would stop shining it in his eyes. He reached out, mumbling "Hey, buddy." and his hand hit the inside of a windshield, while the image of a flashlight receded to its proper distance and became a sodium lamp in a parking lot a hundred yards away. "Oh, man." He brought his hand back to his forehead, c_ar, you're in a car. No, _he gazed around blearily, _a truck, a really old truck_

_. . . and it's on its side._

He slowly realized he was lying against the passenger side door. The pain in his ribs was from the door handle and . . . something else. He reached under himself and pulled it out. _Oh, God, a gun._ He scrambled around wildly, looking for . . . _what? How the hell did I wind up in an old truck with, what is it? A .38? Oh, God. Please, God, this cannot be happening. _

The glove compartment had come open; papers were strewn in front of him. He pawed at them, found the registration, squinted at it, and felt his stomach turning over. 'Milton C. Hardcastle.' He remembered _that_ name like it was yesterday. _Oh, God, please let me wake up now._ But no dream, or nightmare, he'd ever experienced had come complete with a blinding headache and the cold chill that he was experiencing now.

ooooo

Manny stood next to the van, leaning over the twisted railing, staring into the murk below. He could see the outline of the truck where it had come to rest, at what looked like a lethal distance below. Still, anything worth doing, was worth doing right. He watched from where he was, preferring not to risk the climb down.

There, _dammit_, there was some movement at the driver's side window; the guy was crawling out slowly. Manny unholstered his gun and stepped over the remains of the railing to take aim. Headlights glared past him from behind. He quickly brought the gun back down, slipping it into the band of his pants beneath his jacket. He heard the car door opening behind him and turned.

"Something wrong?" A guy in a suit was half out of his car.

Manny plastered a look of concern on his face. "Um, looks like an accident. I just got here myself."

"I've got a car phone," the man said with the cheerful, godamn, insipid helpfulness of an upright citizen with a new toy he really wanted to use. Manny wished he could point his gun at him, bad, but this was heading in a direction he did not like at all.

"Yeah," he said, "you call it in." He edged back over the railing, looking down again. The guy must've been less hurt than he'd thought. He was picking his way among the boulders towards the parking lot a quarter mile up the beach, already out of range for an easy kill.

Manny mumbled something about deliveries to make and climbed back in his van. The guy was busy yakking to the emergency operator and barely spared him a glance. He pulled back out onto the road, thinking fast again. The place up ahead was a bar; dark place, small. He was already at the front lot, might beat the guy in there if he hustled. The guy didn't know him anyway. He could still pull this off. Wouldn't look good if he went back empty-handed when he picked up Rico. He pulled into the lot, tires spewing gravel, and jumped out.

ooooo

McCormick shaded his eyes from the light as he stumbled towards it. He stopped once and doubled over, vomiting, _ugh, pizza_. He didn't remember having eaten it.

The rocky beach gave way to the edge of the parking lot, and he crossed that to the back door of a small building. _A bar._ He opened the door and looked into the dim interior. There were only a handful of customers. The barkeeper looked up, disinterested, then back at the Lakers game playing on the TV above the counter.

McCormick managed to make it to a table near the back and sat down, cradling his head in his hands. _I have stolen a judge's truck, and his gun._ He reached down to his left jacket pocket and felt the outline of it;it had to be Hardcastle's, he had never owned a gun in his life. _This cannot possibly get any worse._ Then the news bulletin broke in on the game. There was a low grumbling from some of the customers, the few who had been watching. The barkeep reached for the dial, but not before McCormick jerked his head upright at the words he had caught—"Shooting, tonight, home, Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle."

ooooo

Giles drove, Hardcastle scanned the road ahead intently.

"There," he pointed, "something's going on." A man stepped out of a late model car to wave them down.

"Wow, you guys are really fast." The man said cheerfully. "These phones are something. Don't know what we did without them."

Hardcastle had stepped over the rail and was looking down. He started down the steep embankment without a word. Giles caught up to him a few feet from the truck.

"Wait a minute, Milt. Stay here. Lemme look." But the judge had already pushed past him and was climbing up to look inside.

A second later he slumped back and said, "Thank God," then looked up and down the beach. "But where the hell did he get to?"

"That-away," Giles pointed at the set of prints, on a sandy spot between two rocks, "looks like he left his dinner behind, but at least he's walking."

"Okay, you go get the car, meet me down there, I'll find him. Probably thinks I'm going to ground him for smashing up the truck." There was no mistaking the relief behind the gruff words.

Ooooo

Manny had circled around the back on foot, hoping to intercept the guy. No luck. Back at the front door he slipped in quietly, trying not to attract any attention. He saw him at the rear, sitting at a table with his head down, not looking so hot. Then his head came up, and what color there had been, drained from his face. Manny tuned toward the TV, hearing the same thing that the other man had.

The bartender flicked the channel to a movie, something with John Wayne in it. The guy at the table hadn't moved.

Manny thought fast. The guy ought to be on the phone, calling the cops._ What the hell, he's slipped a gear. He looks like he thinks he did it. _Manny smiled to himself. This was too good. Wait'll he told Rico. Well, maybe not the part about missing his shot back at the curve. He strode toward the table, no longer trying to look anonymous.

"Sir," he said with the voice of authority, "you'll have to come with me." The kid looked up at him like death warmed over.

ooooo

McCormick looked up at the heavy-set man with the salt-and-pepper crew cut and the no-nonsense voice. _This is it. They didn't waste any time, did they?_

He stumbled to his feet. The man hadn't taken out the cuffs yet, but he did have a gun: he was holding it low, and pointing it in a businesslike manner.

"This way, no fuss," he gestured towards the back door with a little movement of the barrel.

McCormick got up and walked slowly in the direction he'd been pointed. His head hurt, it was hard to get a handle on everything, on _anything_, that was happening but . . . something was very wrong with this. No cuffs. He hadn't even told him to raise his hands and . . . _yeah, what about the Miranda? _He was through the door ahead of the other man and stepped to the side, pulling the judge's gun from his pocket. He swung clumsily, but with his full strength, against the older man's head.

The man collapsed with a grunt, and fell forward onto his face. McCormick staggered back, still holding the gun, and stared at the fallen man. Suddenly, now that he'd killed a cop, it didn't seem so hard to believe he'd shot a judge. He turned and took two steps, started to run, then stumbled on the sand at the edge of the lot.

And he heard someone calling his name from the shadows, just beyond the other side of the lot.

ooooo

"Damnit, McCormick." The judge came up, breathing hard. "What's the matter with you?"

He had seen the kid stagger away from the back of the building. As he came closer he saw the shape of a body near the back door. He approached it cautiously, kicking away the gun near the man's outstretched hand and then leaning over to take a quick look.

"Well, Manny, been a long time." He felt for a pulse and then stood up.

The kid was sitting under the street light thirty feet away, head down, holding the spare .38 in his right hand. _Good thing I left it in the glove compartment._ He walked toward him. McCormick lifted his head wearily.

"Well, at least you're not dead," he murmured, staring at the judge.

"What, this?" Hardcastle gestured at the rusty stain on his left sleeve. "It's nothing."

The kid was looking puzzled. "Doesn't matter anyway . . . I killed a cop." McCormick was gesturing with the gun in the direction of the body.

It was Hardcastle's turn to look confused. "Him? He's not dead. You just conked him a good one. And he's not a cop."

He was near enough now to see McCormick's face, and he didn't like what he saw. The kid's eyes looked unfocused, and he was holding onto the gun like it was his lifeline. He took a step closer and the gun swung erratically in his direction.

"A cop," the kid muttered; now he was cradling the gun with his other hand, pointing it up toward himself.

"Not a cop," Hardcastle stopped where he was, resisting the urge to talk fast. That wasn't going to work here.

He edged in slowly. He was ready to bet the farm that McCormick wouldn't fire on him, no matter what condition his head was in, but he wasn't willing to give odds on the kid not shooting himself.

"At lease you fine'ly got me for a real one." The words were getting more slurred.

"Wait a minute," he started to reach for the gun but hesitated as he saw the kid's finger tighten on the trigger. "Wait," he said more softly. "There's something in your pocket." He tried to sound calm, persuasive. "Your right pocket."

He saw Giles approaching from around the side of the building and gestured him back. The kid was patting his pocket with the gun, then switched hands. Hardcastle wanted to just snatch it away but--too risky.

"Yeah, in there," he coaxed, "the right one."

McCormick scrabbled in his pocket clumsily, trying to get his fingers around something, and then trying to pull it out. He finally suceeeded, holding up the crumpled piece of paper, and looking at it as if he'd never seen it before.

"That's it." Hardcastle reached for it gently. "See?" He flattened it out and held it out to the kid. "See what it says?"

The eyes were even more unfocused than before. He was leaning over it, squinting, his left hand drifting down. "Can't." he replied grumpily.

"That's because it's my handwriting, which is not so hot. Says 'popcorn' and, um, let's see, pistachios, chocolate chip cookies, salami, Swiss, and," he turned the list back towards himself, "oh, yeah, rye."

The kid looked up at him slowly with a look of trusting confusion, and repeated, "Rye?" then looked down and murmured, "seedless."

The judge took the gun as it slipped from the kid's loosening grip, and grabbed him as he slumped forward.

ooooo

For a moment it was as though the ground had shifted underneath him, threatening to topple him forward even though he was sitting down. Someone had him by the shoulders, was keeping him upright. He opened his eyes again slowly, as the wave of dizziness receded and the feeling of cold fear loosened its grip on his heart.

"Not a cop?" He looked at the judge. "You're sure?"

"Yup, name's Manny Ocampo."

"And not dead?" He had to work this through, he had to hear it.

"Not dead. Though I'd have to say that if he was, it would go under the heading 'public service', Manny's one of the busiest hit men to come out of Las Vegas in the last twenty years. Suspected in, let's see, must be twenty-five hits. Never convicted."

McCormick closed his eyes again for a moment. The whole thing felt so unreal. He didn't have all the pieces, but he remembered . . . he remembered the call from Barbara Johnson in the middle of the night. Flip. The memory was like a gut punch and he drew in a gasp of air. The hand on his shoulder tightened.

"You okay, kid?"

The judge. Standing on the steps of the courthouse flicking away a cigarette that he'd just taken out, unfastening . . . handcuffs, riding in that ancient rattle-heap of a truck. The relief was so great he felt himself starting to tremble. He heard the judge and someone talking, Lt. Giles, big guy, decent, never gave him a hard time about being an ex-con. First cop he'd ever _liked_. The judge was telling him to call an ambulance.

"No," he mumbled, "no hospital. I'm okay. I wanna go--" Gull's Way, the gatehouse. The day they'd come back from Rio Blanco and he'd unlocked the gatehouse door and thought--"_home_."

"I think you better lie down, kiddo." The hands were easing him back.

"No." He opened his eyes. Hardcase. Hardcastle, frowning at him. Midnight guerrilla basketball, harebrained car chases.

"Okay, okay, don't lie down, but you are going to the hospital to get checked out."

"Okay," he could tell now, the frown was worry, not anger, "get checked out, then home." He paused; there were still gaps, like the darkness stretching out around the place where they were sitting. Tonight . . . "you missed your movie." He couldn't for the life of him remember what movie it was.

There was a look of surprise on the face in front of him, then he saw Hardcastle shaking his head gently.

"Don't worry kiddo. I know how it ends. Besides," he smiled, "there wasn't any popcorn."


End file.
